


Burning Wings

by WalkTheStarsWithMe



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Angels & Demons, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Supernatural Elements, Alternate Universe - Supernatural Hunters, Alternate Universe - Wings, Angel Sherlock, Demon Moriarty, Demons, Established Relationship, F/M, Hunters & Hunting, M/M, Minor Canonical Character(s), Not Canon Compliant, Other, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, SOME THINGS NOT TAGGED TO PREVENT SPOILERS., Some Humor, Supernatural Elements
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-05-14
Updated: 2015-06-04
Packaged: 2018-03-30 14:23:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,544
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3940168
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WalkTheStarsWithMe/pseuds/WalkTheStarsWithMe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>[ON INDEFINITE HIATUS/CANCELLED]<br/>John Watson seems ordinary on the outside: just an invalidated soldier struggling to make ends meet. But after the death of James Moriarty, things change. New frontiers open up while old doors shut. Because a deal's a deal -- a promise, even -- and like a promise, it cannot be broken.</p><p>Yet we all know a deal such as John's has a steep price -- and John is about to see how much it costs to keep from losing Jim all over again.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prelude

**Author's Note:**

> This fic will probably borrow quite a bit of _Supernatural_ canon, but some aspects of the demons and angels will be lore of my own. Don't mind me. xD
> 
>  
> 
> **\--Alder, a.k.a. WalkTheStarsWithMe**

 

 

~*~

 

 

He stood before the grave, and had tremoring hands. The world felt almost empty. He looked down at the granite slab, felt the urge to touch the already-fading lettering, trace it with his finger. It was an irrational urge, he knew, but it hurt anyway, made the inside of his chest crumple up and wither, made his eyes feel heavier in their sockets and his head feel hollow. The wind rose and the a few dead leaves tumbled over the grass.

John Watson, he heaved a sigh.

John could remember the dead man. His eyes, his hands, the purr of his voice, his kisses, and a lot of other things besides. What had never made sense was the way the man had died, trying to escape his burning flat, dying of carbon monoxide inhalation in the process.

How exactly had it happened? John did not know. It was not a gas leak, as the police had decided it was. John was sure of this. He’d seen the building go up, seen a shadow jump from the flames in the window and disappear into the stars. The four tenants and the landlady had all burned. One of the bodies had been reduced to nothing more than ashes; the rest, charcoal husks. But James had been left intact, limbs singed partway but still so beautiful. So beautiful.

_No, no more. No more of this. I have to get over it._

He put a hand to the grave and ran his thumb over the name, wiping the grit and dust from it. _JAMES MORIARTY._

John ground his teeth together but the last words came anyway, cruel in their naïveté --

_“You wait for me, okay?”_

_“I will.”_

But now there would be no waiting, only closure, as the therapist had said. A final goodbye. A breaking of a promise. The dying leaves on the surrounding trees shuddered, and a few drifted down around the sandy-haired man and landed gently at his feet.

Longing pulled taut around John’s throat and he let out a choked sound. But a sudden presence made him turn, despite the fact of his limp; he wheeled around and found himself face-to-face with another man.

Well, actually, face-to-neck. The other man was quite a bit taller than John, dark-haired, with one blue eye and the other one green, both of them narrowed into little slits.

“I could bring him back for you,” the man cooed, softly, yet clearly.

John stiffened, held his cane tighter. “That’s impossible.”

And maybe it was a trick of the light, some unexplainable anomaly, but the stranger’s eyes seemed to flare yellow, glowing amber for the briefest instant, and sudden wings gleamed dark silver behind the man. In a smouldering voice he spoke: “The griffin, she killed him.”

“Killed who?” John snarled. He glanced to his right, at the other people at their loved ones’ graves, the other people who could obviously see the man with the two-toned eyes and wings.

But they didn’t look up.

“Only you can see me,” the man said. “I’ve come to give you work. Your lover will be granted life again, as an advance payment.”

John looked back at him and the wings and glowing eyes were gone. Dread coiled tight in his chest. “You’re mad.”

The wings returned, and this time they were sheer black, enormous, dwarfing John under their shadows. The man’s eyes were harsh amber now, like the eyes of a cat, and the piercing light made John flinch --

“John Watson, you have been chosen by God. And by God, you shall have your lover back.”


	2. Alive Again

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologise for any errors in advance; I don't get this fic Britpicked... ^^;

The man lay on his back, panting hard. He could see nothing, only pure darkness. He fumbled, loosened his tie to breathe better. One hand came up; it met an obstruction just a few inches from his face. Other hand moved to the side; another obstruction. Barriers.

He fumbled, reached in his pocket. No mobile. Nothing. Not even a match. He felt the ceiling of his prison, and got a sliver stuck in his finger. Judging by that it was unrefined wood. Cheap box. Smelled like pine. Probably pine. Or something related. Cedar, perhaps.

He tried to bring his legs up to kick out. No room. He punched the top, hard as he could. It gave a little. Now his fist stung. Mind was racing. Racing so fast. Too fast. A derailing train.

_Control control control control--!_

He couldn’t stop it, the memory, rising up in the dark to fill the void: fire flying, the ceilings falling, all the screaming. The screaming never stopped. Never, never, never.

Then all was dark again, the memory ending, fading away as if it were a song on a tape that had reached the end of its spool.

_No. Focus._ Which way was up, truly up? Direction-of-the-sky up? The man gathered a tiny glob of spit in his dry mouth, spat it out. Gravity brought it back down onto his lower lip. Now he knew. He wiped it away with one hand. An un-burnt hand. Strange. He distinctly remembered pushing his way through the crumbling flat, burning his hand on a scorching doorknob.

Rewind the tape. Play it over. _“You wait for me,”_ he remembered saying, to somebody. An amazing somebody. The name eluded him, slipped like sand through his fingers. He couldn’t quite grasp it yet.

A voice, a memory-voice came -- _“I will.”_

And with that, the man reared back best as he could and struck.

Wood cracking, planks breaking, splinters sticking into skin, the man coughed from dust and then took a deep breath, held it, drew back, struck again --

The dirt came down. He yelped. The darkness swallowed up his cries.

~*~

Air hit his hand when it punched up through the grass. Air, sweet air, with no heat at all. A night-time breeze. Then it hit his other hand as it rose up from the dirt and broke through the surface. The man groped about, found purchase in the root of the nearby tree, and lifted himself up.

Wheezing gasp. Relief. His throat opened up and he breathed as much as he could. The air sweeter than sugar and twice as good, he kicked and flailed and crawled out of the ground. He lay on the grass, coughing, eyes bleary from the dust. Looking at the city lights made his eyes tear up. Even the moonlight left black spots marring his vision.

His back was itching and aching. Something was sprouting from them. Fear tightened his throat as if he were being choked all over again when he looked over his shoulder and realised he’d grown wings. Black wings, crow’s wings, only larger and longer. Heat leaked from him as he steadied himself. The release of it cooled him down. Calmed him. The heat was not quite fire, but warmth intense enough to singe the grass around his upturned grave in a perfect circle. Apparently he’d retained some of his demon magic from Hell.

Mind still reeling, the man stood, and the wind caressed his outstretched wings. London lay before him and around him, blanketing him in comforting familiarity. As he brushed as much dirt as he could from his clothes, he wondered, _Can I fly?_

He didn’t know. Only one way to find out.

He flapped once, twice, again. His wings lifted him up about a foot and a half, but his heart was already soaring. The gift of flight -- he had been blessed with it. But what had he ever done to deserve it?

He realised he didn’t know where he was. Or _when._ This was London, he was sure, but at the same time it was somehow different. Changed.

The world teetered. He nearly fell. The man folded his trembling wings, and turned around.

His name, _JAMES MORIARTY,_ glinted back at him from the face of a grave.

~*~

John loved hearing the sound of bullets sliding into place in his gun.

He ran now, breathing hard, gun in his hand, knife in his belt. The street was quiet, nobody around, the orangey-yellow streetlights lighting the way. A hunt was on, and he was in it; every single night brought the opportunity of seeing it again.

A hunter and their prey have the most frightening of affairs -- every little tryst is fraught with danger.

John Watson was hunting a griffin. King of beasts. Lord of earth and sky.

It was simply his duty to do so. He had sworn to it, sworn to kill the split-tailed griffin that had killed James. His James. _I will resurrect your dearly departed if you swear to kill the griffin in two month’s time,_ the man with the two-toned eyes had said. _Do we have an agreement, John Watson?_

John shook his head. Focused. A whole month and a half had gone by already; he had very little time left. Time had always passed him by, constantly unspooling to become empty days. Now that they were full with hours of hunting they were even more fleeting, like faraway memories. He had seen only glimpses of the beast, seen only the flash of its claws, the slip of its shadow, seen only a downy auburn feathers left in its wake.

Now he looked up at a row of buildings on his left, sighting a dark figure at the top. A winged figure. It was hard to discern its exact shape, and John was not entirely sure if it was the griffin, but he kept his eyes fixed on it anyway. The sandy-haired man watched, made note of the creature’s location. Then he turned and slipped into an alleyway, where a fire escape hung on the side of a flat, a dumpster sitting nearby.

He clambered onto the dumpster. Leaped and caught the last rung of the fire escape’s ladder. Brought it down and then scaled the fire escape easily. And with his breaths shuddering in anticipation, John climbed onto the fire escape railing, and then up to the roof. On the building ahead of John stood the figure. A curly-haired man. Not the griffin. But the man was probably another angel, judging by the . John lowered his gun, and called out softly: “Uh, hey, are you hunting it too?”

“I am hunting him,” the angel replied coolly, not even turning to look at John.

“Him?” John echoed. He hadn’t considered the fact that the griffin may have a gender.

“Down there,” said the angel.

“Down where?” John perked up. A full week of hunting and he hadn’t even seen the griffin, only a few glimpses of its hide.

“Oh, Christ alive,” muttered the angel. “Come here. He’s down _there_.”

A few moments later, John was standing by the angel’s side, looking down over the edge of the building. The angel, like many other people, was about half a head taller than John. And the angel’s long black coat just accentuated this difference. John heaved a tiny, almost inaudible sigh.

Then he asked, “Who’s that?”

“Escaped demon,” the angel answered without missing a beat.

“From Hell?”

“Yes. Now shut up, and watch -- _wait a moment._ ”

John moved to the side, which was rather dangerous since he was on a narrow ledge and easily half a step from falling to his death. The angel was staring down at him with eyes like ice, gray-and-white wings bristling. The staring gave John a prick of unease: “What? What is it?”

“You can see me?” the angel snarled in a low voice charged with suspicion.

“Yes?” said John.

“You shouldn’t be able to. Not unless you’ve been -- nevermind.”

“Huh?”

“Shut up now. We’ll deal with this later.” The angel folded his wings neatly against his back and returned his attention to the demon below. “See him down there?”

“Uh-huh,” answered John.

“He’s only half-demon. Hence why he hasn’t possessed anybody yet. Half-demons simply cannot. Do you know why he is only half a demon?” the angel asked.

John shifted his weight, then looked back down at the demon, licking his lips. “Uh...”

“You can see angels and demons and yet you know nothing of them?” the angel sneered.

“You’re an angel?” said John, surprised that his initial conclusion about the man had been correct.

“Yes, yes, an angel!” said the angel, misinterpreting this. “Us angels usually do not intervene when demons rise; usually demons are exorcised and sent back to Hell by our allies the hunters. But strange things have been happening and right now scouts are being sent out for preliminary reconnaissance, to draw a bead on this, and determine the cause of it. I myself am a scout -- Sherlock Holmes, second class angel, of the Morningstar Garrison. See here?”

The angel, Sherlock, had fished a chain out of his pocket. On the end of the chain was a silver token carved in the shape of a rising phoenix.

“What kind of strange things are happening?” asked John, who eyed the little trinket with undisguised interest. It was a rather exquisite piece, details so fine it was as if a steady-handed mouse had crafted it. John found himself half expecting it to emit a screech.

“Very strange things, even by our standards -- a sudden rise in the rate of occurrence for supernatural phenomena and happenings here. You’ve read the papers, haven’t you?”

John nodded. Four suicides had occurred, all in different places in London. Four unconnected people had all died over the course of a few months, all found dead in front of broken mirrors, throats slit. The police investigators of Scotland Yard had concluded that these were serial suicides -- but the cause was still unknown. “So what does that mean?” said John.

“The Tiger of the Mirror may rise again, as he had in the time before time,” the angel said cryptically. Sherlock pocketed his phoenix talisman, much to John’s disappointment. Then that disappointment darkened to anxiety when Sherlock whipped around, wings outstretched to block John’s view.

“Leave.” Sherlock’s voice had dropped to a low snarl, addressing some entity John couldn’t see.

Then another voice broke in, soft, but charged with threat -- “You leave.” It was tinged with an Irish accent. And painfully familiar.

_What?_ thought John. _It can’t be._ He bent down to try to peek at the intruder, but Sherlock’s half-furled wings hung too low.

Sherlock reached into his coat and unsheathed a serrated knife. The foreign runes on the blade glowed white-blue; John could feel its power just by looking at it. “Half-demon,” the angel snarled.

He heard something begin to crackle. _A fire?_ John wondered. “What’s it to you, sweetheart?” came the intruder’s achingly familiar voice.

John decided to reveal his own blade as well. He darted out from behind Sherlock, his black curved knife gleaming darkly. The look on John’s face turned from determined to shocked in a split second.

There, on the rooftop, outlined by moonlight, stood James Moriarty.

But this was not the James John knew. The half-demon sported a pair of crow’s wings, and his eyes were blazing amber. In his left palm he cradled a tight ball of fire, ready to launch it. James was wearing exactly what he’d worn when he’d died, only dirtier -- a full-on three-piece suit. Eyes crazed like a wild animal’s, Jim panted hard, and in the hoarse rasp of his breath John could hear a snarl threatening to break out. And even then, John could still recognise his dead lover.

John’s mind went blank.

Well, not quite blank. But it funnelled down to one single thought:

_It worked._

Oblivious to John’s disbelief, Sherlock took a step forward, snorting. “How did you get out of Hell so quickly?” the angel said.

“I don’t know.” There was genuine confusion in Jim’s voice, and John let out a long breath.

“You won’t survive long. Half-demons never do,” said Sherlock.

“How long do angels’ vessels usually last, then?” Jim shot back. Then he noticed John, and his eyes stopped glowing.

John lowered his knife, blinking. There were no words to describe the way his perspective on the world had abruptly shifted. Sherlock’s wing came between him and James but John pushed it away, saying, “S’alright, I know him.”

The angel snorted again. “Oh, lovely. An army doctor and a half-demon who were formerly gay lovers.”

John gripped his knife tighter. “How did you--?”

“Thank you, dear,” James sneered, cutting John off. He kept his wings out, burying the angel and the army doctor in their massive shadows. John stood before him, just half a step away, and the shiver of fear that ran down John’s spine was overcome by a rush of anticipation.

“John, back away,” Sherlock snarled in a low voice.

John was about to protest when Jim whispered into his ear: “Trust me.”

Then he kissed John, and for a moment John couldn’t concentrate on anything else except the warmth of James’ lips. James pulled him closer, kissing harder, dipping him as if they were dancing.

Then John yelped as they fell, fell together, right down through the shadow cast by James’ wings.

~*~

They travelled through curtains of black darker than pitch. The journey was only a few seconds but John clung to Jim the entire time, frightened. Then a blue-gray smear opened up before them, and before they knew it they’d fallen out of a wall and landed on the floor of John’s darkened flat.

John gasped; Jim had landed on top of him, and the impact knocked the breath from him. But even after James got off of him and helped him up, John stood staring at the half-demon, his eyes wide, heart beating wildly. A look of pure incomprehension suffused his face as he shrugged off his jacket and tossed it onto the couch. “What was...? How did you...? Are you really a--?”

James folded his wings, averting his eyes. The quiet whisper of his feathers calmed John some, but the blond man was still bewildered. James heaved a sigh, kicking off his dirty shoes and walking over to the light switch by the door. He flicked on the lights. With reluctant deliberation he forced himself to look at John. “Shadow-flight. Haven’t tried it by falling before, but it worked alright.”

_Shadow-flight?_ _Like teleportation?_ thought John. He crept closer half a step, reaching out a tentative hand. “Are they real?” he said in a voice little more than a wisp of sound. He was referring to James’ wings. “Can I...?”

Without answering, James shifted to the side and partly extended one jet-black wing, a wing so large that it defied physics, what with how they were still usable despite their size. John’s hand tremored as it brushed the very tip. “What else can you do?”

The Irishman laughed. Then he held out his left hand in front of John. He squinted for a moment, concentrating, and then -- _crack!_ a fiery orb levitated just half an inch from his palm. “Go ahead. Touch it. Doesn’t hurt until I actually cast it.”

Gingerly, John prodded the fireball with a finger, then pulled his hand away, awed. “So you’re a--”

James finished for him: “Demon, yes. But only half. I didn’t stay long enough.” He curved his wing so John could see the outside of it. “I’m still human,” Jim said in an acid whisper, as if saying it would cement it as fact.

“How did you get out?” John ran his hand over James’ wing, marvelling at how sleek it was, how seamlessly the feathers knit together to form the shape.

James pulled his wing back to let John touch the inner side. “I don’t know. One minute I was being tortured, the next, I was in a box. My coffin,” he added, not even blinking at the morbidity of it. “I dug myself out, and then I had wings. They just sort of -- happened. How long was I gone?”

“A month and a half, exactly. You were being tortured?” John asked, but as soon as he did the Irishman growled, “Enough. I’m hungry. Is there anything to eat?”

Before John could answer, James had moved away, closing his wings and walking into the miniature kitchen. The half-demon snatched an apple off of the counter by the sink and bit into it without washing it first. John followed, mesmerised as Jim ate the apple while opening the small fridge to find a better snack. The bareness of the inside of the fridge gave John a shot of embarrassment. “There isn’t much,” he admitted.

“’Isn’t much’ is too weak of a phrase,” muttered James. It was true. The fridge only had two food groups: lunch meat, and water. “How the hell do you live off of this?” the half-demon spat, grabbing an opened water bottle and taking huge gulps of it.

Wincing, John mumbled, “I don’t have a job.”

Silent, James slunk out of the kitchen, with a face reminiscent of that of an irate cat’s. He stood in the main room for a bit, just looking from the messed-up bed to the desk catty-corner from it. Pit in his stomach, John ducked his head in shame, knowing what was coming, knowing that he would have to fess up to far worse things than eating unhealthy.

“You don’t have a job or an adequate selection of food and yet you have a _laptop?”_ James snapped.

John cringed. “My sister gave it to me. And nobody wanted to hire a man with a game leg.”

“You haven’t got one now. What the hell have you been doing all this time?!” The Irishman’s voice rose, which only made John’s stomach roll up in a tight little knot.

“Sleeping, mostly,” John lied.

“Shut up. That’s bollocks; you look fitter than you did before I died.” Ignoring the way John flinched at that, Jim paced about, rummaging through the hallway closet and overturning a few boxes. “Is this all my stuff?”

“Yes. It is. I could never really...”

The misery in John’s voice made Jim stop in his tracks. The half-demon turned around, and John looked away. James approached him and quietly wrapped his arms round him. Shame welled up in John’s chest; maybe he _was_ working for angels, but it still felt wrong that he’d brought James back from the dead. Still, perhaps it would be better that James did not know about the deal John had made.

“It’s alright.” James’ voice was gentle, as if he were speaking to a high-strung horse. “I won’t pry into what you’ve been doing all this time, if it upsets you that badly.”

“No, no, it’s just...” John sighed and hugged him back. Jim smelled of something sweet and vaguely herby. “I missed you so much.”

“I missed you too,” answered Jim. He planted a tiny kiss on John’s cheek. They hung like this for a long while, chest to chest, until James whispered, “You hungry?”

“No, not really,” the shorter man replied.

“Well, I’ll tell you what: I’ll go shower, and put on some clean clothes, and then we’ll go out for dinner,” the Irishman said.

They gently pulled away from each other. “But I’m not hungry,” John protested.

“Well, _I_ am,” Jim laughed. “You try starving for a whole month and a half. See how hungry you are _then_.”

John couldn’t help but laugh as well. “Okay. I’ll wait.”

~*~

Speedy’s Café.

They chose a booth that rested before the window, so Jim could look out and re-remember London bit by bit. Wings concealed, James sat opposite from John in the booth. The Irishman put his hands forward in the middle of the table, and John put his hands on top of them. It was just a casual dinner; James had swapped his tattered suit for a collared shirt and vest. John had changed into a woolly jumper, the other one he’d been wearing earlier having been dirtied after embracing a mud-stained half-demon.

Everything in the world was perfect now, put right by their reunion.

Jim leaned forward and said, “Come here.”

“What is it?” The blond man leaned forward as well, curious.

Jim kissed him, on the lips, then ducked away before John could stop him.

“Jim!”

“Nobody saw!” whispered James.

“You’re a bloody schoolboy, I swear!” John huffed.

“Then I’ll be a gentlemanly schoolboy,” the Irishman murmured. He took one of John’s hands and kissed it, smirking at the way he could see John’s face redden.

“So what’re you thinking?” said John.

“I’m thinking club sandwich, toasted,” Jim replied.

“No tomato.”

“Never in my life. Tomato disgusts me.”

John laughed, and the sound was like a burst of colour in the dim light. He pulled his hand away just as a waiter, a tall silver-haired man, strode to their booth. The blond man was still blushing as the waiter said, “Name’s Greg. I’ll be your server. What would y’ like t’ drink?” in a heavy Scottish accent.

“Just water,” answered John. To Jim he said, “How about you?”

“I’ll have water, too,” the Irishman said instantly. “Er -- could I get a little extra ice with it, too? Please?”

“Alright, then.” The waiter pulled a pen and a little order sheet from his pocket. “You ready to order as well?”

Jim’s eyes lit up (not in the literal sense), but John responded first: “Toasted club sandwich for him, no tomatoes.”

“What about you?” Greg queried.

John began to say “I ate earlier--” but James cut him off: “We’re splitting it.”

The silver-haired man cracked a knowing smile at the pair, then quickly bent down to write out the order. “Any dessert?”

“Nah,” said John. “S’all good.”

“Okay.” Greg stood up, still giving them a half-grin. “Be back in a sec.” He turned and walked away.

The half-demon and the army doctor sat silent, but it was a close sort of silent that hung comfortably between them. John’s eyes were blue-gray, the colour of falcon feathers. Jim sucked in a breath and smiled, stomach all fluttery when those eyes met his own. He was about to speak when the waiter returned.

“Don’t mind me. Here’s your drinks.” Greg set two glasses of water down.

Jim took the one with more ice. “Thank you.” He lifted the glass to his lips.

No sooner did the water meet his skin did Jim yelp and slam the glass back down. His mouth felt as if it were burning; a wisp of steam rose from his lips. The few other patrons turned to see what was happening, John looked terrified, and Greg the waiter pressed a napkin to Jim’s face, muttering “Sorry” over and over as he led the Irishman to the men’s loo.

Once they were in the loo, James rushed to the sink and wet his hand, putting it to his stinging lip. He squeezed his eyes shut from the pain, sucking in air between his teeth with a hiss.

Greg’s voice was taut with fear. “Sir, I am so sorry, I don’t know what happened--”

“I have no clue either,” said Jim. But when he opened his eyes, he saw that the sink’s drain was plugged, the basin already filled with water. A tiny wooden rosary sat at the bottom. Why...?

As it dawned on him he wheeled about to face Greg.

Greg’s face was twisted in a snarl as he drew a knife from his pocket.

**Author's Note:**

> Basically, a birthday present for my friendo Sky xD
> 
> (Can you believe that she used to absolutely HATE Johniarty? And now she's self-proclaimed "Johniarty trash")
> 
>  
> 
>   
>   
>   
> bitch i was johniarty trash first dont u steal my show bITCH  
>   
>   
> 


End file.
